You can't kill a dead man
by Dem0nLight
Summary: Gangrel should have died when Chrom took fought him on the Border Wastes. He should have died wandering through the Plegian desert. And he most certainly should have died when he was mugged by pirates! Gangrel has survived against all odds, yet wants nothing more than to die. (Fire Emblem Awakening paralogue 18 pre-story)
1. Survivor

The only thing Gangrel knew was pain. Back-breaking, gods-forsaken agony. He was certain that he was alive-death couldn't hurt this much-but he wished he were not. Too much hardship, so much blood, that red stain on his hands. Unconsciousness wasn't as bad, but even then sharp stabs of it made him want to whimper.

Slowly, he became aware that he was lying on the ground, in the same place that Ylissean whelp had put him. Cracking open his eyes, he saw the pale sky, filled with the light of dawn. He was painfully aware of every bruise, cut, and sore part of his body. Summoning all his courage, Gangrel pulled himself into a sitting position.

The field was empty of people, aside from the bodies of his soldiers. Shaking from exhaustion and a slight chill, the Mad King stood, feeling strange without a levin sword resting on his hip. Stolen by the Ylisseans, no doubt. Spoils of war. It didn't matter, Gangrel didn't need a weapon. He was without purpose of his conquest now.

Glancing around at the deserted border wastes, Gangrel picked a direct and began walking. Hours passed, but he trudged on, not sure what he was searching for. By noon, he'd encountered an oasis. Resting in the shade, Gangrel looked at his reflection in the pool of water by his feet.

He looked much the same as he had before leaving his castle to face the Shepherds. The only change was a long, half scabbed wound stretching from the back of his neck down to his sternum. His shirt was ruined-covered in bloodstains and torn to rags-but Gangrel couldn't pay attention to anything aside from the wound. Tentatively, he brushed his fingers across the scab.

Pain flared upon contact, rushing through the full length of the wound. Gasping in surprise, Gangrel collapsed to the ground. He could feel exactly how deep Falchion had cut, how close of a call it had been. The cut went no deeper than a centimeter from his heart. He should have died. He was the living dead.

Gangrel was suddenly angry at Chrom. How dare he let Gangrel remain alive! Why didn't he go in for the killing blow?! What purpose did a dead king serve!?

Gangrel stood, stalking off into the desert. Preferably to die.


	2. Wanderer

_By the gods, this heat!_

Gangrel was not normally so susceptible to the sun-Plegia was surrounded by deserts-but he had been walking through sand for days. Every day, he trudged through burning hot sand, the sun blistering his skin with sunburn, stealing what little water he could find to drink. In the night, the heat vanished to be replaced by freezing cold. With no shelter to sleep under, Gangrel was unprotected, exposed.

_Why am I not dead yet?!_, he thought miserably. For anyone else, the sandy wastelands would mean death within the week. Gangrel had been wandering the dunes for nearly a month, suffering as he'd never suffered before: covered in sunburn, his limbs aching from the constant walking, and even worse, the all-consuming feeling of being lost, without purpose.

_Worthless._

Gangrel lurched to a stop. His gaze swept the endless landscape, searching for whomever had spoken. He saw nothing but the shifting sand, and so, continued walking. He hadn't gone another hundred yards before he heard it again.

_Craven._

Again, he stopped and, again, found nothing and no living thing other than himself. Yet he knew he'd heard that voice-that strangely familiar voice. He kept his ears open as he began his walk again.

_Irredeemable._

This time, Gangrel did not even hesitate in his stride. The voice was familiar because it was his own. Upon recognition, a stream of insults and curses filled his mind.

_Dastard. Fool. Weakling. Hopeless. Vermin. Coward._

The endless flow continued, every unkind thing he'd every said now directed at him with ten times the force. Every syllable hurt his pride like an axe strike. And no matter what he did, the words kept coming, unbidden.

Perhaps it was penance, but Gangrel didn't belive in such things: once a deed was done, it was _done_. Nothing could change what had happened, whether it be good or ill. Chrom would never be able to forgive Gangrel for the Exalt's death, because no act of penance could bring his sister back.

Vengeance, on the other hand, made sense: paying back cruelty when something cruel befell you. Even that sanctimonious prince Chrom's mind had been put ease by slaying the Mad King, though it did nothing to change his situation.

Gangrel wondered why he was thinking of the Ylissean prince. That dastard had tried to kill him! And failed! The nerve...

He stumbled a bit as the soft sand gave way to hard-packed dirt. Glancing up, Gangrel realized that he must have reached the other side of the desert. Alone. On foot.

Again, anyone else would've died. Gangrel had been counting on death among the sands. Escaping the place that would have been his grave gave the former king a strange sense of disappointment. Perhaps he truly was a dead man walking.

Looking ahead to the grasslands and fields, he saw a dirt road, carved out by the thousands of travellers that had circumvented the desert.

Perhaps the gods had a sense of humor after all: the road spilt in two not even three hundred yards down the path. There were no signposts, but Gangrel knew that one road lead toward Ylisse, the other to the center of Plegia. Neither road was welcoming, so Gangrel took the third option:walking back along the path.

If his estimates were correct, his chosen path would lead him to the seashore. It wasn't a particularly hospitable place-being filled with pirates, merchants, and soldiers alike-but it was away from both Pegia and Ylisse, the places that he knew he could never return to.

Gangrel ran his finger over Falchion's cut as he walked. A cut that was too shallow to end one miserable life. It wan't too late to end it, however. There was still plenty of danger in the world. Sooner or later, the end would reach him.


	3. Misery

_Author's Note: This could be classified as two chapters, but the first part seemed too short, so they've been combined. Sorry for the huge word count._

_PS: I have never drank any alcohol in my life; I had to look up all the information for the bar scene._

* * *

"Don't move or you're a dead man," the cloaked thief declared, pointing a dagger at Gangrel's chest.

_Being a dead man sounds good right now_, the former king thought bitterly. _Oh, wait! I'm already dead! This dastard just doesn't know it!_

All that walking-across both the Pegian desert and miles of fields-only to have a less-than-inadequate thief want money that Ganrel did not have. The gods _did_ have a sense of humor: a cruel one.

"I have nothing," Gangrel snarled. "Be on your way, and forget you ever saw me."

"I want gold, not threats," the thief. "If you have no gold, then it's time you joined the dust, where you belong!"

Gangrel almost told him to go ahead and strike before he remembered that he did actually have two things of value on his person: his crown and a golden pendant, both of which he never, ever took off. The thief could not be allowed to have them; they were too precious to himself and his lineage. Rather than confront the would-be robber, Gagrel tried to push past him. The thief then attempted to grab his pendant.

Gangrel seized the thief's wrist, and was promptly at knifepoint again.

"I will have that gold one way or another," the thief warned, wrenching his arm free of Gangrel's grip. When there was no response, the knife sliced through the air, aimed at the same spot where Falchion's cut crossed his chest.

What happened next was so bizarrely out of his control, it was like Gangrel had momentarily give up control of his body to some other force: with one deliberate sidestep, the knife passed by his body without even brushing him. As the thief stumbled, Gargel took a step forward and pushed him to ground. The knife clattered to the ground.

As the thief struggled to breathe, Gangrel picked up the fallen weapon and stood over his attacker.

"Now," he said calmly. "either you're going to tell me where the nearest town is, or you're feeding the vultures tonight."

The thief swallowed visibly and proceeded to give the former king directions as to the nearest friendly village, even warning him of a bandit camp that was along the way. Gangrel let him go, but only after relieving the thief of one of the full money pouches hanging from his belt.

Slipping the knife into his belt, Gangrel left the thief sprawled on the road, walking towards the rising sun.

* * *

It was evening by the time Gangrel reached a town. He barely evaded being crushed by the heavy gate, and being questioned by the guards patrolling the perimeter. Wishing he had a longer cloak to keep him warm-preferably one with a hood, to hide his identity-the shamed monarch slipped past the townsfolk hurrying to their homes.

The very persons who pushed and shoved by him had once been his faithful subjects, he came to realize. Now he was not only among them, but beneath them, the lowest in the kingdom.

Looking up, he noticed the sky darkening not only with sunset, but with storm clouds. As lighting passed from one cloud to the next, he came to the conclusion that he needed to take shelter. And fast.

It took some searching, but Gangrel found what he was looking for: the local Tavern. His whole body ached from his travels and fighting with thieves along the way and he needed relief. Ducking inside, he heard loud laughter of half-drunken men.

As he looked at the small, candlelit room, he noticed that a majority of tables had been pulled together for a large, rowdy group of ruffians. Sidestepping them, Gangrel pulled up a stool at the bar. The bartender approached, and Gangrel ordered a flagon of ale, placing his payment on the bar.

While he waited for his drink, he saw-for the first time since fighting the Ylisseans-his reflection in a shield hanging on the wall.

He looked terrible: his red hair overgrown and shaggy, his face smeared with dust and other filth, and the rough stubble of a forming beard showing all along his jawline. No one would have recognized him as king, or even a noble for that matter; his cloak, books, and pants were all heavily worn and faded in color. He didn't even had a shirt to cover the long, smooth, white scar where Falchion had traced its deadly path.

When the tankard of ale arrived, Gangrel prepared himself mentally for the experience; being no stranger to strong drink, the mad king knew that the ale would not only numb his pain-both physical and mental-but loosen his tongue and cost him his balance. Bracing himself, he took a long swallow.

The faintly bitter aftertaste hadn't yet faded when he felt the alcohol do it's work, relaxing every tense muscle in his body. It was at this point that a burly man from the loud tables approached him, holding a drink himself. Gangrel took notice of a long scar tracing his face, and was struck by a sense of uneasy familiarity, which he could not place.

"Evenin' friend," the man slurred. "Find difficulty on your travels?"

Keeping his tongue under careful control, Gangrel responded, "None that wasn't expected. That's quite a mark you have there."

Gangrel swiped his thumb across his face in a rough estimation of the scar's position. The man found this funny and guffawed in response as Gangrel took another swig of ale.

"Not unlike yours, traveller," the man pointed out when he stopped laughing. "So what brings ye here? Don' see many men wandering about shirtless. Well, shirtless but with their gold intact!"

Before he could stop himself, the words flew from him: "I'm wandering. Took this gold from the thief who tried to accost me. Hope to put it to good use, before I die."

Even in his drink-ridden stupor, the large, burly man understood the strange phrasing.

"On the run, are ye?"

Gangrel bit his tongue to stop himself from answering right away, choosing what words he could with the faint, hazy sense blanketing his mind. He finally settled on vagueness:

"I've done my share. Who's asking?"

"No one of consequence," the man answered. "Just a man of commerce."

With that, he stumbled back to his table, still clutching his tankard. Gangrel finished his drink, his body almost completely numb, and feeling slightly sleepy. He stood, and struggled to walk in a straight line out the tavern door. Upon exiting, he was drenched in heavy rainfall. The thunder that rumbled through the sky made his head hurt, and he staggered across the road, dizziness temporarily overtaking his senses.

The nearest place he found was a stable; nearly falling over, Gangrel left the warm storm and leaned against the nearest stall, wishing the world would stop spinning. He heard a horse snort and found himself face-to-face with a young stallion. Surprised by the sudden encounter, he stumbled away, and fell into an open stall.

His head would ache tomorrow, he was certain. Blearily, he pulled himself into a standing position, clinging to the side of the stall for balance. Figuring that the stable floor was a good space as any to sleep, Gangrel took off his shoes and cloak, propping his boots against the wall and folding the wet cloth into something of a pillow. He didn't even mind the dirt that was slowly turning to mud under his drenched body. No, his thoughts were on the man with the scarred face.

Gangrel didn't expect himself to remember names, but he knew that particular brigand: it was a hard face to forget. In his days as king, he'd hired droves of ruffians, thieves, and assassins to incite violence in Ylisse. The man he'd met in the bar was memorable because of his amazing feat of sacking six villages without losing a single man, and then surviving a direct encounter with the shepherds. Gangrel wasn't sure what that man had been up to since, but he _looked_ like he was living well.

_I am never going to get the taste of iron out of my mouth_, he thought, laying on his side. Before he passed out, he imagined Falchion hovering over his chest, patiently waiting for someone to pick it up and finish what had been started.


	4. Pain

It had taken two weeks for Gangrel to leave the town: there was something comfortingly normal about that place, even if no one ever spoke to him and the horses were the only creatures that didn't glare in disgust. The gold he'd taken from the thief was starting to run out-having been spent on food, drink, and fresh clothes-signaling that the time was right to depart.

Being on the road was a lonely affair, but the Mad King did not care for company: low as he might be, he did not need someone simpering over his every misfortune. No one passed him except a band of identical merchants who tried to sell him anything he might have wanted, if he were any other man.

By day, Gangrel pressed forward, striving through all kinds of weather and difficulty of terrain. By night, he laid by the roadside, wrapped in his cloak for warmth. Days blurred together, as did the towns he passed through. He encountered nothing that he couldn't overcome and as such, continued on in misery.

However, Gangrel should have known better than to expect perfect solitude. As he came closer to the coast, the more people passed him on the wayside. He should have realized that not all of them were just minding their own business.

* * *

A pack of rough-hewn men clustered all across the road, blocking the way. Gangrel hesitated, before reminding himself that caution was overrated, and walked on. As he passed them by, several turned to watch him. When he was in the thick of the group, someone called out: "Ahoy there!"

Gangrel turned around and saw-to his surprise and frustration-the same man who'd spoken to him in the tavern some weeks before. This time, however, the brigand leader was surrounded by friends, all of whom were capable of killing any traveller who fell into their midst.

"I hardly recognized ye!" the man continued loudly. "Lookin' so cleaned up and with a much lighter purse I'd warrant!"

The whole pack of brigands roared with laughter as Gangrel bit back a harsh retort, reminding himself that he was less than even the lowest. The leader squinted at the Mad King when no reaction came.

"Forgotten how to use your tongue, have ye?"

"No more than you've forgotten to bathe."

The words slipped off his tongue before he could stop them and Gangrel cursed himself, the never ending insults that flowed in the back of his mind becoming louder, sounding in his ears. The brigand leader ran his fingers over the axe blade strapped to his back in a threatening motion.

"Well, you're more a man than you seem to be," the brigand leader sneered. "The last man to say that to me an' live was the former king of Plegia. Is that who ye think ye are?"

"You tell me," Gangrel snarled, wanting to wince as he heard his past self mentioned. "I only know I'm not a craven dastard like you."

"Mighty hypocritical," the leader snapped, losing grip on his temper. "Ye say yer better, an' yet you talk so rude to your superiors here, dog. But I'm a generous man, so long as you turn over yer gold and forget ye saw us here."

Gangrel looked over the group, measuring his chances as best he could.

They were large men, but the Mad King was still a full head taller than even the biggest of them. Still, there were twenty of them, and only one of him, and he was armed with only a dagger.

Yet...the former King wanted to fight. He craved the thrill of cutting down an enemy, standing victorious over a pile of bodies, putting himself into action with actual consequences. His bloodlust raised, he could hardly deny such an opportunity. Looking straight at the brigand leader, he said clearly: "You can rot in $*#&, dastard."

The bandits didn't disappoint: as one they charged, axes and swords drawn. Pulling his dagger from his boot, Gangrel rushed to meet them. This aggressive tactic surprised his attackers, who faltered for a moment. It was all the Mad King needed: with a well placed lunge, one of the brigands suddenly found a knife in his stomach, his sword in the hands of the enemy.

Laughing as he hadn't in weeks, Gangrel cut a bloody swath through the ranks of ruffians. Many didn't even have time to try blocking. Then the lot of them began to get organized: circling, they trapped him among themselves with little room to maneuver. The Mad King fought like a man possessed, ignoring the cuts and bruises accumulating on his body. Finally, from both blood loss and exertion, Gangrel collapsed, breathing hard.

An axe blade entered his field of vision, and he saw the bandit leader's scarred face glaring down at him. Gangrel bared his teeth in exhausted defiance.

"Ye killed me crew," the brigand leader snarled. "You've sealed yer own fate."

Gangrel smirked with satisfaction. Now it was over. What had been started would be finished, all debts repaid.

"Still..." The husk of a man on the ground felt his sense of fulfillment fade at that one word, disappointment settling in. "Yer one das't fighter. I could use a man like ye in me crew, seein' as how ye owe me fer their lives."

"I would rather-" Gangrel cut himself short, his instinct for self-preservation drowning out his every other thought and desire. Nearly choking from the effort of holding back the words, he heard himself accept the offer. The scarred face above him broke into a wide grin-an expression that, if anything, was worse than his scowl.

"Now get that %#$ of your of the ground," his new employer ordered. Gangrel stood up slowly, swaying as he was hit by a bout of light-headedness from losing a near fatal amount of blood. The brigand watched with critical eyes, nodding in satisfaction as the red-haired man held his ground.

"You will call me Captain. Capitan Zanth if ye be feelin' right and proper. Ye have a name?" There was no response forthcoming, as the new employee was unwilling to share anything about his past. Zanth turned to the surviving members of his crew and asked what they thought they might like to call their new crewmate. Several suggestions made the crew laugh loudly. Gangrel turned a deaf ear to them, more concerned with bandaging what injuries he could.

"We'll call 'im dirt!" A voice rose from the crowd. " 'E's the lowest of 'em all, 'till we get someone new, after all!"

"Naw, that's n' insult to dirt!" someone else called. "He's even lower! He's a maggot!"

The crew laughed loudly at the last one, and Zanth nodded in approval. "Ye hear that, maggot?"

Gangrel curled his hands into fists, resisting every urge to throttle the lot of them. He turned to his captain, and stiffly replied, "Yes sir."

"Good. Now the maggot can make himself busy by picking up all the weapons and take 'em with us to the ship."

Zanth's tone held every expectation to be obeyed. The newly christened maggot did not disappoint, picking up the weapons of the dead, taking weapons from the living and injured as well. It took all his strength to support the load, but he did not let a single blade touch the ground.

"Let's go, lads," Zanth ordered. The crew shambled after him, falling into order-which put Gangrel behind them.

_I am not king any more_, he reminded himself. _The Mad King died on the border wastes. I'm just a maggot now._


	5. Servant

The air smelled of salt as Gangrel allowed himself a moment to breathe, pausing in his work. Nearly two weeks had passed since the pirate ship had weighed anchor, and he'd been working the entire time, from before dawn until well after sundown. The feel of being at sea was the only thing that brought him a measure of peace on the reeking barge the pirates called home.

"Oy! Maggot! Who told ye to stop workin'?"

Gangrel bit his tongue and returned to his task-swabbing the deck-with renewed energy. It was dull work, but it kept him away from his abusive crewmates, at least most of the time.

Working under Zanth was no holiday: the captain did nothing to stop the brawls that often erupted on deck, leaving the former king more work to do than before. Atop keeping the ship clean enough to live on, Gangrel had to keep account of all weapons on board, use his limited healing skill in the med cabin, and complete every repair job on the ship. The last was particularly humiliating because he was expected to fix torn sails more than anything else, and the Mad King could not sew a proper stitch to save his life.

"Maggot! Ye missed a spot! C'mere and clean it up!"

_I almost wish those das't shepherds would butcher these clowns_, Gangrel thought bitterly as he moved to the opposite side of the deck-the side he'd finished half an hour ago. His arms ached from the never-ending tasks assigned to him, but he held his tongue, never complaining. Better to suffer in silence then to be beaten for whining.

"Maggot!"

Gangrel immediately snapped to attention upon hearing Zanth's rough voice. His captain was the only one who could elicit this fast of a reaction, and Zanth knew it. The pirate took his time to walk across the deck space between them, savoring his feeling of being in control of the red-haired man.

"We'll be in port fer a raid tomorrow morning. So get yer maggoty hide into tha' armory and sharpen the blades. An' gods help ye if there's on dull edge left on the entire ship."

Gangrel replied with a stiff "Yes sir," and put the mop and bucket away in the supplies closet. Making his way belowdecks, he dodged the shoves and jeers of his crewmates and slipped into the armory.

The room held an impressive array of killing instruments-an physical ode to steel-and the Mad King exactly how many there were and where they all belonged. He took a whetstone and surveyed the shelves, trying to decide where to start. Sighing, he pulled an axe from it's place and began to sharpen it.

He's be in here for hours, he was certain of it: fifty axes, thirty swords, and nineteen lances with dull edges needed honing. All his job.

To his credit, Gangrel was a fast worker; spending years on the battlefield had given him plenty of weapons experience and practice at sharpening blades-more than enough skill for the mundane task before him. Even the smoothly curved edges of the three Levin swords the pirates held posed no challenge to him. Perhaps he did not need to use the whetstone on the latter of the weapons-they were, after all, not designed for cutting-but his orders had been explicit. Not one dull edge.

The task took until well into the night. Gangrel's stomach grumbled from lack of food, but he continued to run the whetstone across steel, taking the opportunity to stop thinking and allow his hands to repeat the motions over and over. The insults that usually rang in his ears at all hours quieted to be replaced by the scraping rhythm he created.

He had to finish the work by lantern-light, but once he was done, he walked out to the galley. There was no food to be found aside from a crust of bread and half a strip of jerky. Taking the food, he walked to the deck and leaned over the railing.

The salty wind brushed through his hair, stinging his face with sea spray. He allowed his tense form to relax as he watched the waves, taking a bite of his miniscule dinner.

The swaying of the boat didn't bother him in the slightest; if anything it was helpful, giving some constant factor into the chaotic mess of an existence he had left. The meager portions were gone in a few bites, but they quieted his stomach. Gangrel ran his fingers along the gold chain around his neck thinking as he watched the water move against the ship's wooden hull.

For the first time in a long while, his thoughts ran farther back than his days on the throne, running instead to the slums where he had been raised. That time and this were more closely related than anyone could have thought: he was at the bottom, the most hated of anyone. Again.

Gangrel turned his thoughts off. No, he would not go back, not even in a moment of weakness. He had sworn that when the crown had been placed on his head. The same crown that rested upon his brow at this very moment.

"You pathetic dastard," he said aloud. "You can't go back. You're not a king, you're less than a man. You died weeks ago. You're worth nothing."

Words that would have pierced deep once now barely held any meaning to him; he'd heard them so many times repeated in his mind that he'd stopped fighting it, and accepted the truth.

* * *

Zanth looked at the piled of perfectly sharp weapons with a critical eye. He would never say it aloud, but the maggot had surpassed his expectations in almost every way.

Behind him the crew whispered, wondering what their captain was thinking. The maggot waited silently, standing at perfect attention, awaiting further directions.

"Grab yer weapons, lads!" Zanth called. "There's spoils aplenty to be taken!"

As the pirates swarmed forward onto the weapons pile, Zanth walked to the red-haired man, pulling him aside.

"What are ye playin' at, maggot?" Zanth growled. Gangrel looked at him blankly.

"Nothing. You gave orders, I followed them."

Zanth grunted, dissatisfied. The man before him did not say another word, his jaw clenched tight. The pirate captain scowled and turned back to his crew, all of whom were awaiting the order to go ashore. As the boat was slowly emptied, Zanth gave the cabin boy his final orders.

"The ship does not move from this spot. And it better be cleaner than when we left it, or I'll lay the whip on yer miserable hide."

Unseen by the crew, Gangrel smirked to himself. Let the barbarians go kill themselves trying to grab something glittery. He might be a terrible excuse for a human being, but _they_ were all idiots. And if the lash fell, he'd welcome the chance to feel something again. Even punishment would be a nice change in his miserable world.

* * *

A/N: I am starting to lose confidence in my writing ability; whenever I read someone else's story about the Mad King, it seems so much better than mine! And I'm not even sure where I'm going with this. I haven't gotten any brainwaves on this, except for the last chapter-which I can't write until the rest is done. So, not really expecting any updates on this soon. Sorry! :(


	6. Awakened

AN: After spending thanksgiving break out of town-and away from all forms of computers-I have gotten some more story fluff to use here. Took more time than I'd like, but here is my best shot at keeping this story alive.

Thanks so much for your continued support. I love you guys.

* * *

"If this goes sour, I'll be taken' ye down with me," Zanth growled. Gangrel nodded, running his hand over the pommel of the Levin sword lent to him for the raid. As the gates to the city opened, the pair slipped among the crowds of people rushing to and fro.

It had taken three weeks of arguing, twenty-seven incidents of insubordination, and exactly five death threats to convince Zanth _not_ to attack the port city of Tergaron in a traditional assault. Gangrel knew the city well-it had been a favorite of his during his days as king-and knew with a surety that any piracy attempt from the sea was doomed to fail. One of the most powerful generals in the Mad King's army held a personal stronghold within the city walls, with a personally loyal militia, which performed an extensive check on all ships coming in or our of harbor. All this evidence, and the Captain had still insisted on the raid.

Gangrel might have been seeking death, but being struck down in a battle he had not started seemed wrong, somehow. Like he deserved recognition before the final blow.

Though sheer determination, the servant had held his arguments steady and convinced the pirate captain to take a more subtle, complex overland approach. Zanth had not let any of the crew know that it was the Maggot's idea-not his own-to try a new strategy. The plan revolved around the pirate crew splitting into teams and infiltrating first the city, then the fortress, posing as travellers seeking aid. Once an audience with General Halstead could be arranged, the crew would meet up in the stronghold and lay waste to the city's treasury.

The plan was fraught with risk, but Gangrel knew the general very well: he was a good man. And good men have a pitiable habit of offering help to strangers, despite obvious risks.

"State your business," a guard by the stronghold's main gate growled. Gangrel stepped ahead of Zanth, earning a scowl from his captain.

"Travellers, Sir. We come seeking shelter and provisions."

The guard was not a tall man and squinted up at Gangrel, trying to see who he was underneath the hood that was carefully placed to hide his identity.

"Why didn't you go to the inn? This isn't a charity."

"The inn is full," Gangrel said honestly. Full of Pirates waiting for a change to enter the fortress.

"What is your name?" the guard asked with a heavy sigh. "I will announce you to the General, and he will see that you have a place to rest tonight."

"I am Dharkan. My friend is called Garn."

The guard nodded and marched inside the gates. Zanth glared at his crewman.

"Ye better know what yer doin', Maggot. This better pay off handsomely, or you'll feel the lash fer all the insubordination you've put up."

"The men need to mass about the gates. We'll open it once we have the general," Gangrel said, ignoring the threat. His Captain was livid, but decided to humor his cabin boy, stalking off to the inn to ready his crew. Gangrel checked that his hood was all the way up for the hundredth time. No chances could be taken when he was this near the Ylissean border to Plegia.

The guard returned well after Zanth, and guided the pair into a large room that was decorated with rich carpets and tapestries. While Gangrel didn't so much as glance at expensive decoration, the pirate looked around, impressed.

"What I wouldn't give to live in this palace," Zanth muttered. The Mad King rolled his eyes. A comfortable lifestyle, to be sure, but filled with expectations and responsabilities that could break a wyvern. His thoughts were interrupted as the guard returned, accompanied by the general. After an introduction, the soldier returned to his post outside the gates.

The general surveyed the pair of them, even as they did to him. General Halstead was a tall, well muscled man, with an air of battle-readiness. His cropped black hair was streaked with gray, as were his impressive sideburns.

"Perhaps you should remove your hood, good man," Halstead suggested. "There should be no need for secrets here, and I should like to see your face."

Unbeknownst to the General, those were the words that would seal his fate. Zanth drew his axe as Gangrel allowed his hand to grip the Levin sword's hilt. With his free hand, he pushed the hood back from his face. The General's face drained of color when he saw his former master.

"Do yer job, Maggot, an' get the location of the vault," Zanth ordered. "I'll be back with the crew. If he doesn't talk, gut him."

As his captain ran to open the gates, Gangrel drew his blade, pointing it straight at Halstead's chest.

"So, will you tell me where the gold is hidden, or do I have to kill you and find it myself?"

"Gangrel," the general gasped. "Is that you, sire? I thought you dead!"

"I am dead," Gangrel replied. "I'm just a maggot now, following orders. And don't think that I wont do as I'm told and run you through."

"What do you mean you're dead?!" Halstead cried. "You're alive, clear as daylight! And what are you doing, pretending to be a servant? You are a king!"

"Maybe once, but not anymore. It's not an act: I've fallen a long way. If you can call it falling. More like a rude awakening."

The general shook his head at his former king in amazement. Halstead had known Gangrel when he'd been young and idealistic, and had watched the change that lead to his becoming the Mad King. To see the man change in a way opposite from before was amazing and frightening. In Halstead's mind, Gangrel was still royalty, and to see him reduced to little more than a slave disgusted him on a profound level.

"Kill me if you must," the General sighed. "Release me from my duties and be done with it. I won't tell you where the gold is; you already know."

Gangrel sheathed the Levin sword and instead drew his long, steel knife. Circling around the soldier he had once commanded, Gangrel touched the sharp tip of his blade against Halstead's back.

"General Halstead," the former king said clearly, "I release you from duty."

The knife plunged into Halstead's back, piercing his heart. The man before him gasped and collapsed to the ground, spasming twice before he died. Gangrel looked at the steel weapon in his hand, watching the blood run down the short length of the blade, dripping red on his wrist.

"Maggot, where's the gold?" Zanth bellowed as he entered the room, followed by the crew. Gangrel halted his conteplation of his knife and sheathed it.

"Follow me," he ordered, ignoring the Pirates' sputters of rage and furious scowls. Into the labyrinth of halls, Gangrel led the would-be thieves, stopping at a large statue of the Fell dragon. As he pressed an indention in the statue's base, one of the walls opened to reveal mounts of gold, silver, and gemstones. The pirate gleefully grabbed as much as they could hold, hiding the spoils in pockets and bags. Gangrel took nothing aside from a single fistful of coins before opening another hidden door-this one having concealed a long passageway.

"This tunnel will take us outside of town," the red-haired man called. "We go this way and we don't need to face the soldiers stationed in the city."

Zanth scowled and stalked over to the servant, his axe drawn.

"What are ye doin' Maggot?" the captain demanded. "I should kill ye here an' now fer insubordination."

"I'm saving your neck," Gangrel snapped back. "You want to die by going out the front door, be my guest. I've given you an easy way out, so I suggest you take it and be pleased with the riches we've secured here."

Never before had the Maggot ever spoken so powerfully. In that one moment, Zanth was unsure who was really in charge of the raid. The Pirate had never seen such fire in the taller man's eyes before, not even when his hands were bloodied by his crew. For a moment, he was afraid.

Gangrel stalked down the tunnel, yanking his hood up again. He himself wasn't sure what was happening, but it felt good not to be the powerless one. It felt almost good, but his contentment was halted by a flood of bitterness.

Once again, there was blood on his hands.


	7. Punishment

A/N: I am on fire! Two Chapters in the same week! New Speed Record!

This was a chapter I knew I'd have to fit in somewhere because this event had to happen. The universe would never forgive me if it didn't. I apologize for any grammar or spelling errors (the spell check and proofreader aren't perfect, and I screw up when I write a lot. Sorry again! :P )

* * *

The Mad King was in a very bad mood. Then again, he'd been increasingly sour since the raid on Tergaron, so his irritation was perfectly expected. Or it would be to any other group. The Pirates idiocy was truly fascinating at times. At the moment, it only fueled Gangrel's barely constrained rage.

"Maggot! What are ye doing? Get back to work!"

_If one more of those dastards talks to me again_, Gangrel thought furiously, _someone is going to die tonight. Or, better yet, right now._

The main deck was overcrowded with Pirates as the red-haired man attempted to swab the deck unsuccessfully. The crew ignored him as he worked around them, trading boasts and jeers back and forth. Not being noticed was perhaps the best thing that could happen on the ship, and Gangrel was pleased that it had occurred when he needed it most; Zanth had made it clear that any more blood drawn would result in harsh punishment, and blood was exactly what Gangrel wanted every time a command or insult came his way.

Finally finished-no thanks to the morons on deck-Gangrel put away the mop and bucket in the supplies closet and rotated his stiff shoulders and neck. He cracked his knuckles and leaned against the mast for a moment of relaxation, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

"Maggot!"

Gangrel opened one eye to glare at the Pirate who addressed him-a thug by the name of Hains. Hains threw a mound of cloth at the servant, who caught it easily.

"Those sails need mendin'," Hains growled. Gangrel wadded up the white fabric into a ball and threw it back. The crumpled sails unfolded and floated down to the deck as the crew turned to watch the exchange, interested by the Maggot's unusual stubbornness.

"Do it yourself," Gangrel snapped back. Hains face turned crimson with rage.

"Are ye askin' for a beating?" the shorter, broader man demanded to know. Gangrel rolled his eyes and straightened up, watching the crew as they closed in.

"What do you think, dastard? Oh wait, you can't think. Not enough brainpower."

The words felt so good to say. Almost like the weight of those words had lifted from Gangrel as he threw them at the target of his choice. The familiarity of the situation did not bother him in the slightest, nor did the imminent danger posed before him.

Hains, despite being backed by the entire crew, was unsure whether or not to administer punishment. In the Pirate hierarchy, he was far from the most influential or respected. The Maggot was most certainly his inferior, but even so, it was not his place to discipline others. And atop his doubts was an unexpected fear of the taller, leaner man: never before had those eyes ever held such ferocity and malice. They were the eyes of a madman.

Unwilling to be made a fool before every occupant of the ship, Hains stepped forward and attempted to give the stubborn rebel a slap. His palm never made contact: with a motion fast as a snake's strike, Gangrel caught Hain's wrist and bent it back. A smile touched his lips as the pirate gasped in surprise and pain. With just the slightest added pressure, the sound of the bone breaking resonated in the stunned silence.

"Does that hurt?" Gangrel sneered, his grin widening into a smirk. "Perhaps you should run home to your mother and cry. If the hag will even take you back, you craven #$!%#$%#."

The whole crew shifted as one into aggressive stances. Gangrel had crossed the invisible line: he had not only mentioned, but insulted a crewmate's mother. Nothing could save the Mad King from a beating now. Unknown to them, Gangrel wanted a good brawl.

Trying to rush him, the ruffians only got in their own way, inciting more fistfights. As the men tried to reach Gangrel, he laughed mockingly, only to be broken off by a blow landing on his jaw.

"Congratulations, filth," the angered trickster spat, his gleeful expression vanishing, replaced by a vicious snarl. "You've just put yourself on my hitlist. Get ready to die in agony."

Throwing himself into the chaos, Gangrel became a whirling demon, breaking bones, sending men keeling over from pain. Among the shouts of alarm and rage, a mad cackle flew from the center of violence, sending chills down the back of anyone who listened.

"Wha' is this?!" came the thundering bellow of the Captain. "Break off ye dogs, or I'll have yer heads!"

The fight broke apart, leaving Gangrel standing on the open as he broke Hains jaw, knocking the man unconscious. Zanth's face darkened as he saw this and demanded to know what had happened.

"The Maggot started it, Cap'n!" one of the Pirates called. "Didn' obey orders and hurt Hains over there!"

Zanth glared at Gangrel, who did not flinch away. The Captain stalked over to him, seizing him by the collar.

"Do ye know how much insubordination this warrants? More'n yer life's worth, dog. Learn yer place already, das't it!"

Gangrel twisted free of Zanth's grip and spat at the Pirate's feet. Zanth did not take kindly to the gesture.

"String 'im up boys!" Zanth cried. "This one deserves a whippin'!"

The crew cheered, converging on the condemned man, who put up quite the fight. Yet despite his strength and skills, Gangrel could not stand the overwhelming numbers turned against him. Tied to the mast, his shirt torn off, the Mad King was rendered completely defenseless. Zanth took the lash in his hands, enjoying the feeling of power punishment in his hands.

The whip whistled through the air and landed on Gangrel's exposed back.

The pain wasn't the worse he'd ever felt, but the red-haired man still grunted under the impact. The line of pain burned across his back, stinging in the salty air. Again and again, the lash fell on him, each blow worse than the last.

Unwilling to let the dastard know that he felt anything, he shouted fierce oaths at them. Zanth continued to hit him, but the expletives kept coming. Finally, the brigand leader could take no more insults.

"Get the cat o' nine!" he barked. A crew member ran off to fetch it, and Gangrel twisted as best he could to see what this new disciplinary tool would be. When it was revealed, however, he recognized it instantly.

It was much shorter than the traditional whip, but had a much thicker handle to support the nine knotted tails that waved in the wind. The most dangerous feature of the lash was the least obvious: shards of glass and metal scraps that poked through each knot. The pirates might call it a cat o' nine, but Gangrel had another name for it: a scourge. Not a tool for punishment, but an instrument for torture.

The lash of the scourge made Gangrel want to scream aloud. Yet he locked his jaws and refused to make a sound. As the blows rained on his body, the Mad King shook from the effort of not crying out. It was a gods-given mercy when he fell unconscious.

* * *

His back ached when he woke up. He couldn't even feel the original lash marks due to the pain each of the scourge's stripes. He could count each of the hundred thirty-five welts that ran across his back. Gangrel opened his eyes and found himself in the med cabin, a balmwood staff leaned against the wall-a clear order for him to heal himself and get back to work.

The beating would have broken any other man, but not Gangrel: he was angrier than before. He wanted each and every miserable lowlife on this das't ship to suffer with him. Nothing else mattered but recompense for this blazing agony.

A storm of bitterness swirled in Gangrel's heart as he stood and leaned against the wooden walls. Yes, there would be a reckoning. But not yet.

The Mad King knew how perfectly to get his revenge. The same way he always did: a slow breakdown of the mind. Cutting off everything meaningful until there was nothing left than a husk.

The payback would be so sweet.


	8. Breaking

One of the few constants about living with pirates was that when a crew has gold, a majority of it is to be spent in taverns. Another constant was that-under no circumstances-was Gangrel to be invited to these almost nightly drinking parties. That didn't bother the Mad King-who in their right mind would want to be in the same room as an entire crew of drunken idiots?-but it was different to be deliberately left out instead of choosing not to go.

Every afternoon, without fail, the crew would walk off the gangplank and leave him alone to nothing but his thoughts and his work. With no one around to take his frustrations out on, Gangrel grew more and more dangerous as time passed. And when the crew came back-either late at night or early in the morning, all of them in a drunken stupor-the traps he'd spent hours setting up were triggered.

Gangrel's quiet vengeance on the crew was more devious than any of the Pirates had been prepared for: life on the ship became miserable as personal items mysteriously went missing, messages were delivered wrong, the food tasted terrible, and no one could find the person-or persons-responsible to deliver revenge.

Zanth was furious, of course: no one was allowed to cause trouble without his permission; whomever caused this chaos would be beaten within an inch of his life. But no one would confess, and the perpetrator could not be found.

As the brigands scratched their heads in bewilderment and rage, none of them noticed the Maggot cackling to himself in the shadows.

As much fun as it was to wreak havoc among the pirate crew, Gangrel knew it was time to finish his work. After months of setup, his final move was ready to be played. All that he needed was to move into position. Then it would be finished, no regrets, no shame, no suffering.

* * *

It was evening when Zanth and his crew arrived in town, ready for a night of revelry. Their plans were shattered, however, when the Tavern's owner wouldn't let them inside. Apparently, someone had let spill who the Dread Pirates really were.

"I've been wondering about you lot for some time," the barkeep said as he shut the door. "I will tell you this once: I don't allow lawbreakers into my tavern. Go find someone who'll be willing to take in scum like you."

"Who told ye?!" Zanth demanded. No answer came from the closed door, but an unfamiliar laugh sounded behind them. As one, Captain and crew turned to see the Maggot himself leaning casually against the stone wall of another building.

"What are ye doin' here, Maggot?!" Zanth burst. "I told ye to stay an' look after the ship!"

"What, and miss out on seeing the big reveal?" Gangrel snickered. "I've put too much time and effort into my revenge to just sit back and miss watching the long-awaited climax."

"What are ye talkin' about?" the pirate captain asked. He was answered by another laugh.

"I knew the crew were a bumbling lot of idiots, but I never thought you would be numbered among them, _Captain_. It should be obvious, but I will pity you and spell it out: no one _else_ in you dastard crew is clever enough to cause so much chaos on your ship and stay anonymous. _I_ am the troublemaker you've been looking for."

The Mad King grinned evilly as he watched the his revelation slowly dawn on the faces of the men whom had abused him for so long: their expressions slowly changed from surprised to angry as they understood properly what had happened. It brought Gangrel a strange sense of relief to be recognized for his deeds at last, more like how it used to be.

How it should be.

"I'll whip ye raw fer this," Zanth growled, advancing with clenched fists.

"I welcome it." Gangrel straightened up and unsheathed the steel sword he'd brought with him, stopping the other man cold. "What's wrong? Oh, that's right, you left all your weapons back on the ship. Honestly, could you be any stupider?"

Zanth's face turned bright red as he wrestled with the overpowering need to punish the Maggot for his audacity, halted only by the presence of the shining steel weapon. Each of the men had seen Gangrel on the battlefield: if he wanted them dead, they would be.

"Call me what ye want," Zanth growled, out of options. "But yer a blasted coward fer facin' me when ye know I be unarmed. Better a fool than a craven dastard. Ye've go no honor."

"Who needs 'honor' when victory only comes through work and treachery?" Gangrel sneered, stepping closer to his captain, deadly blade gleaming orange in the light of sunset. "Only a weakling would rely on such fairy tales as 'honor' and 'nobility'."

Despite his scathing words, Gangrel tossed the steel sword away, the sound of metal striking stone echoing in the strained silence. Zanth watched the blade as fell, unprepared for the uppercut that struck him under the jaw a second later. As the shorter man fell to his knees, Gangrel seized him by the hair and hurled him away. Zanth slammed into the stone wall of a building and collapsed.

Gangrel's cruel smile was gone. He was disgusted as he watched the man he'd slaved under struggle even to stand. All that time, all that work, wasted on a man who couldn't live without someone to do everything for him.

"I cannot act as though you are my superior any longer, Zanth. That is a foolish notion that should have never even been conceived, and now, you will pay for it."

None of the crew dared intervene: the initial argument had taken a turn, and was now a battle of ranking. As captain, Zanth expected unwavering loyalty from his men, and now the Maggot-the lowest of them all-was challenging that order. If Zanth lost the fight, he would most certainly be killed, and the Dread Pirates would have a new Captain to answer to. That is, if the Maggot survived the wrath of the crew.

Gangrel strode over his Captain, tense and ready. Zanth was not, still blinking stars out of his vision. The sardonic smirk returned as the Mad King saw the easiness of it all.

The Pirate Captain would die. Enraged at his death, the crew would attack. Gangrel would not defend himself. The death he had avoided on the border wastes would come. Nothing could stop him now.

Years of experience followed him as Gangrel seized Zanth by the throat and pinned him to the stone wall. The action brought back memories of dozens of similar executions. The only thing missing was the pleading for mercy.

"Who's the maggot now?" Gangrel breathed, slipping his dagger free of it's sheath. He pressed the steel blade to the other man's throat, savoring the moment. Then, as he drew the knife back to deliver the final blow, something occurred to him, something he never before thought: almost every time he had done this before-killed a man in cold blood-it hadn't been the man in question who had begged for deliverance, but rather the family that stood behind him. The mothers, sisters, wives and children, who begged that their loved one be spared, and who wept when the blood fell anyway.

For the first time, he heard those cries. Gangrel heard the screams of women and the sobs of children as he stole a precious life away. He relived every murder he'd ever committed with agony, taking heed to the suffering he'd brought upon so many. Oh gods.

Zanth was more surprised than anyone when the red-haired man suddenly released him, staring at nothing with a look of horror on his face. Then his knees failed him and he collapsed to the ground. Zanth watched as his crewman lay petrified on the ground. He scowled and spat on him.

"Yer the maggot," he growled. "Always will be."

Gangrel didn't care; tears collected in his eyes as he stared at nothing in particular, feeling immense guilt well up inside him for the first time.

_How many families did I rip apart?_ he wondered. _How many have suffered-and died-by my hand. Oh gods, gods no. I-I didn't set out to do this. What happened? Where did I lose my way? Gods. If only I could take it back..._

The sunset turned the world red, making the blood on Gangrel's hands clearly visible. He didn't care anymore: he was well and truly broken. What did it matter if he was a slave for the rest of his miserable existence? So many had lost their lives in the name of his vain conquest. A thousand ghosts that would follow him to his grave. As darkness settled, the Mad King had only one thought:

_This isn't what I wanted._


End file.
